The Frozen-heart
by Palaven Blues
Summary: Bosmer Dovahkiin Lysea isn't called the Frozen-heart for nothing. One-shot, dark humor, TW for abuse and general evil.


_For my BROOOTHERRRR, Lady Loki (don't ask)_

* * *

Lysea Frozen-heart stood over Sergius Turianus, the old enchanter panting while blood oozed from his wounds. The tower around him lay in complete disarray, potions, soul gems, and herbs scattered everywhere.

"I won't," he vowed. "I won't train you again. You haven't the temperament."

"Do not deny me," Lysea snarled. Her hand rested on the hilt of her sword, but she couldn't kill him. Not when he had so much left to teach her.

"I will fight you." Sergius struggled to his feet, a ball of blame growing between his hands.

"Fus … _ro dah!"_ Lysea's Thu'um slammed into him, sending him flying into the bookshelves behind him. Ancient volumes tumbled to the floor around him as he fell. "You'll fight me not, with no magicka." From her pack, she drew a jeweled circlet, placing it atop his bald head. "If you insist on refusing me, however, I will crown you ... King of Fools."

Sergius groaned as the circlet settled on his brow, draining away his ability to fight, his ability to use spells. "I … shall not. I know your purpose in this, and no matter what you subject me to, I shall not yield."

"Oh, you poor fool. You will yield, eventually. The only questions are how _long_ it will take … and how loudly you'll scream."

She would not be denied. She needed to improve her enchanting skill, and the old man was going to help her, whether he liked it or not. He could only hold out for so long ….

#

In the end, he relented. She had known he would. His body lay broken and bleeding, and he gasped wetly, trying to fight for every breath though he must be drowning in his own blood.

"Please … mercy … a healer," Sergius moaned. "I have taught you … everything I can." Crimson stains soaked through his robes, his limbs lying at awkward angles.

Lysea smiled; for a moment, the old man looked hopeful. Then she let the smile widen, her delicate Bosmer nose reveling in the scent of blood, and he shrank back as best he could. Such a shame that certain … meats were off-limits in Skyrim. "If that is everything you know, then I have no further use for you." She drew an arrow, notching it to her bow _Soulscream._

"Well," she said, giving her feral grin once more, "perhaps there is yet _one_ use for you."

#

Sighing as she returned home finally, Lysea rolled her shoulders. Home currently meant Riften; say what one would, she _liked_ living amongst the dregs of society, the worst people Skyrim had to offer. She left her horse at the stables, knowing that Hofgrir would not dare let anything happen to the beast. Since she'd beaten him to a pulp some weeks back, he no longer even charged her for stabling.

The stink of the city assaulted her as he entered the gates. Rotten fish, the stench of too many unwashed bodies, and the sharp bite of skooma mixed into an unpleasant mélange that turned the strongest Nord's stomach. Lysea breathed it in like fine perfume.

It stank of despair.

"My love." Farkas met her at the door, his latest crop of bruises fading into delightful greens and yellows while she'd been away.

Hopefully, he would give her cause to put some new ones on him. "Take this," she commanded, tossing her pack to him.

He caught it awkwardly, fear evident in his eyes as he fumbled and nearly dropped it. Even once it seemed clear he had a hold of it, he stood unmoving a moment, as if terrified to risk a single step.

After a moment, Farkas recovered, shuffling to the cabinet to put her things away. He sorted quickly and efficiently.

She'd trained him well. Dropping into a chair, Lysea stretched, then propped her boots up on the table. "Food?"

"Yes, my love. I have a stew simmering on the hook, if you want to—"

A single raised eyebrow stopped him mid-sentence, and he flushed before correcting himself.

"I'm sorry, my love. I meant, let me fetch you some." He left off sorting her goods and loot, rushing across the cozy hut to spoon some stew into a bowl.

Lysea ate greedily; she'd been too long on the road. Traveling and adventuring were fine, but how long must she be away from her Farkas? By the gods, his bruises had nearly healed!

Farkas had gone quiet behind her, opening her pack once more. "My love?"

Lysea looked back over her shoulder, suspicion already brewing in her at his disrespectful tone. "What?"

"This … this is a black soul gem."

"Yessss?" She put as much venom in that one word as she could. Farkas should not be questioning her; had she not trained him out of this by now?

"It's warm," Farkas added. His soft, grey eyes were full of judgement as they gazed upon her.

"Yes, it's warm. It's full, of the useless bastard who called himself head enchanter at the College of Winterhold. And _because_ he was so very useless, I must away again, to hone my skill until it is unmatched."

"Lysea, please …." He swallowed hard, then continued pleading with her, that worthless sheep's bleating he did so often. "You can buy items, small soul gems. I started a shop while you were away. You can have what I earn, every copper of it. But not the children. Please, not again." His voice broke on the last words.

Lysea seethed. She had thought she had broken him by now. "You would dare?" She stepped up close to him, enjoying the way he shrank back from her. "You are my husband. You dare not question me, nor command me. Go downstairs, and wait for me to collect you. I am going out."

"No."

So unexpected was his response, that Lysea was halfway to the door before she heard it. She turned slowly, disbelief twisting her face as she gaped at him. "Did you just tell me no?" Though she gave her most withering glare, Farkas, for once, was not withering.

"I am sorry, my love. But I see now what evil lies in your heart." He sighed heavily, drawing his great two-handed broadsword. "I am still a warrior, and a Companion. I am honor-bound to stop you."

Lysea was still for but a moment. Then she flew at him, ducking under his first swing and stepping closer.

The knife was buried in his belly before he'd had time to react.

"Silver," he breathed. His greatsword clattered to the floor, and he followed, falling almost gracefully.

Lysea kept ahold of her knife, feeling it warm as it worked its spell. "Of course, silver. I remember what you are, you mongrel. I never should have touched you."

"Not … please …." His grey eyes, wide with grief and pain, flicked to her bag, where a soft humming started.

"Yes," Lysea said, answering his question before he even asked it. She reached into the pack, bringing out a soul gem that had been empty a scarce moment ago. She brandished it in front of him. "I am going to place you into a new bow, with a Fiery Soul Trap enchantment. Then you can help me in this, as my husband ought … forever."

Lysea slipped the gem back into her pack, stepping over her husband's corpse on her way out. "Or until I get tired of you, at any rate."

The new widow made her way through the city, heading for a cramped building close by the palace. That cursèd enchanter had been unable to train her as well as she'd like. She could buy supplies and enchant every piece of trash she got her nimble little hands on, as Farkas had suggested, but that was not the point.

Why spend any money, when there was a cheap and easy way to raise her skill right here? Letting herself into the orphanage, Lysea laughed softly to herself.

The orphanage was quiet, these days. Her steps echoed in the tiny hall, no screaming or laughter or whatever normal sounds usually filled an orphanage. To tell it true, it had gotten quieter once that Grelod woman was dead.

Now, it was fair silent.

Stepping into the common room, Lysea clapped her hands, calling cheerfully. "Who wants to help Mama train her soul trap?"

A dozen pairs of eyes turned to her, empty, soul-less depths gazing at nothing; nothing within and nothing without. Of course they would help her train her soul trap.

Didn't they always?


End file.
